


In The Desert Here and The Desert Far Away

by angelheadedhipster, FlameBlownWhiter, nitpickyabouttrains



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action, Adventure, BAMF Q, Banter, Blood and Torture, Bond and Q in a dark place, Broken Bones, Camels - Freeform, Desert, Fast Cars, Goldfinger, Guilt, I REGRET NOTHING, Innuendo, M/M, Spys!, bond and q in a small space, edward de souza, groupwrite, q does yoga, shiny things, so many descriptions of blue eyes, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameBlownWhiter/pseuds/FlameBlownWhiter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is good at lots of things. So is Q.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote a James Bond movie! It was fun. Title from the Leonard Cohen song “Democracy.”
> 
> A million thanks to our erstwhile betas, [kirenamuln](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kirenamuln/pseuds/kirenamuln) and [hi_irashay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_irashay/pseuds/hi_irashay) and Megan. You guys are amazing and very thorough.

 

_Cover by the amazing[kirenamuln](../../../users/kirenamuln/pseuds/kirenamuln)  
_

 

"There are lots of things I am very good at," grumbled Bond into his earpiece.

Q was still snickering at him. "Of course there are, Double O," he said.

"Walking stealthily through an abandoned Russian warehouse full of snipers would be one of them," said Bond grouchily. "Also I am very good at backgammon, I don't know if you know that."

"I hadn't known that, no," said Q. "I am thrilled to hear it. You are also, I've heard, quite good at killing, maiming and torture."

"Also shooting," said Bond as he whipped around a corner in the warehouse, checked the angles, the corners, the exits, the light sources, and listened for anything alive in the area.

"Of course," said Q. "I have heard that, too. And also," his voice dropping a bit lower, "that you are good at other things."

Was that flirting? Did Q flirt? Bond filed that away for reference as he kicked a door open and darted through to another cavernous empty room.

"It just happens that computer programing is not something you are good at," said Q, now actually chuckling again. "At all."

"Well that is what I have you for, obviously," said Bond. There was something flickering up ahead - a light source? Someone walking?

"And it's a bloody good thing you do," Q continued in his ear piece. "I did try to make it as simple as possible –"

The light was flickering faster now - something mechanical? Worth checking out, for sure.

"–but really, watching you input it from here was, well, about as amusing as anything this week."

"There are things I’m not good at, too," said Bond, now moving faster towards the light. There was a scuffling noise and then a sharp-

"Oh." Azerparone, Bond thought, as the edges got grayer and a whooshing sound started in his ears. Right in the back of his neck. Stupid, he should have been covering the rear better. "Here's another thing I'm not good at, Q.”

"007? 007, what is happening?" His earpiece sounded tinny, far away.

"I'm not good at resisting tranquilizer darts, is what, Q," said Bond as his knees buckled.

"Bond! Bond, are you there??"

As the world went black, Bond heard Q yell "JAMES!" in his ear. _Oh dear_ , he thought, _not supposed to use real names over audio in enemy territory._

_I hope he doesn't get in trouble,_ and then whiteness, stillness, out.

+++

_Twenty Minutes Earlier:_

Bond stared at the computer terminal in front of him, deep in a Russian warehouse. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. A room full of black boxes, none distinguishable from any of the others. Nothing in the room stood out as the sort of computer he knew how to use. The low hum of fans, keeping the room cool, was constant in the background, grating on Bond’s nerves.

“What, exactly, am I supposed to do?” Bond ground out between clenched teeth.

In Bond’s ear, there was a childish laugh, pure glee at his situation. “Don’t be cross with me, this is not my fault,” Q reminded him without any pity at all.

“Certainly you don’t mean to imply that I purposely had a run-in with the guard?” Bond demanded, not willing to take the fall for this one., “That I had my weapon kicked from my grip, so that I was forced into hand-to-hand combat and the toy you gave me smashed, for fun?”

“It was not a toy,” Q huffed, “It was a sophisticated piece of technology, set to do your job for you.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, and even though Q could not see his facial expressions through their earwigs, the young man knew him well enough to understand what he was doing when he said, “Won’t do a thing now, will it?”

“No,” Q agreed, “I only had time to prepare one bug before you left. All you had to do was bring it into the server room. It would have downloaded all the information about codename Matareya and unloaded my backdoor observational program all on its own. I could be seeing every digital action performed on that base by now.”

Bond let Q ramble on for a moment before interrupting, “I assume there is a backup plan.”

“Of course there is a backup plan,” Q spat, sounded aggravated, “You always destroy my best tech, so I plan for such travesties now. Take off your left shoe.”

Trying his hardest not to roll his eyes, Bond asked, “My shoe?”

“Yes, if you remove the sole you will find a USB-drive embedded in the heel,” Q gave instructions, “You are going to have to run the code manually.”

“Computer code is not exactly my strong suite,” Bond said, removing his shoe and finding the drive exactly where Q had said it would be. Of course Q would put it in his shoe - a joke, making fun of how old he was and how things used to be done in MI6. “You are going to have to walk me through this.”

Bond could hear the smile in Q’s voice when he said, “It would be my pleasure.”

With a sigh, Bond went to business, following Q’s detailed instructions. He opened the computer interface port and managed to insert the USB drive. Then, with only a minor amount of bickering, he ran the two subroutines Q had programmed to infiltrate the system. With the bulk of the mission accomplished, Bond only needed to get out.

+++

The MI6 Quartermaster was supposed to be dignified, calm, brilliant, and above all very, very British. Which meant, in a general sense, no running in the halls, no panic attacks, and absolutely no breach of on-mission protocols. As Q scrambled down the hospital-grade white hallway in a desperate attempt to get to M's office, he wondered if this momentary lapse in judgement would get him fired. What was most interesting, however, was that he found he didn't care.

As he rounded the corner, Eve opened the office door. He'd have to remember to thank her later, get her some of those blueberry scones she likes so much from that fancy bakery in Paternoster Square. That is if he survived this and Q didn't find himself drugged and without his memories in a hospital somewhere, courtesy of Queen and country.

He slowed his run to a jog and then finally a walk when he saw the office was occupied. He moved to stand behind the chairs and the men occupying them, standing still to face M.

"It's 007, sir. The Russian mission."

M raised his left eyebrow and cleared his throat as the door to his office shut with a thud. "Yes, we are well aware of what happens to our agents, Q."

In his earpiece he could hear the men shuffling the 00's body around. The concussive bangs on the other side of the earpiece suggested they were not being gentle, but also not being so rough as to cause any real damage. They wanted James for something.

"Sir, we have to go after him. He still has the data on Matareya - we need that data..." Q winced as a particularly loud and metallic sound threatened to burst his eardrum. "... his comm is still active, but they'll find it and remove it soon enough. Time is of the essence."

M motioned him to be quiet. "Yes, Q, we are all in agreement there. 005 and 003 here have just been briefed on the situation and have been assigned to the retrieval mission. You will be removed from whatever other current missions you are running to focus on them and their efforts."

Both 00's were younger than Bond and less remarkable - in almost every way - but they were talented killers. The two 00's together would be a formidable team.

"I...," his voice cracked. Q let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, ran a hand through his unruly curls and fixed his glasses, before calmly stating again. "Yes, sir. Retrieving 007 should be our main priority."

M stood, pressing a button under his desk to re-open his office door. "You misunderstood me, Q, our mission is to procure the data on Matareya. 007's retrieval is preferred, he is a valuable asset, but optional."

Q kept his face impassive at that; of course that was the mission. Sod the mission, obviously. “Understood, sir," said Q. He turned briskly and walked out the door, maintaining a composed and even walk until he was sure he was out of earshot before breaking into a run again.

Being back in front of his computer monitor made him feel a bit better, as it always did, like having an extra arm back in place. He felt right, in control. And then there was a particularly loud thump on his earpiece and a shattering noise, and yep, that about did it for feeling in control. Audio link severed, and no idea what was happening to Bond.

Q started typing, as fast as he could, his eyes roving over the screen in fits and jumps, the blue glare of the words on the glass reflecting in the dark blue of his eyes. It had been long enough now for his virus to work, he was fairly sure, and wherever they were taking Bond was almost definitely within the main compound, and probably linked up -- there. He found it.

He really wished now that he hadn't.

Bond was tied to a chair with something, Q couldn't see what - black strips of cloth, maybe? Blood trickled from his forehead onto his suit collar, and through a tear in his shirt Q could see several bruises running down his chest. Q's hands curled into fists at those - they hit him while he was passed out, that was hardly fair. He sat under a single lightbulb burning in a dark room. Two men with guns stood behind him, further away from the camera in the corner that Q had tapped into. Q squinted into the shadows of the room, trying to see what was in the corners, but that lightbulb was all the illumination he had, and he couldn't make out anything else.

A woman walked into the camera's line of sight. Tall, with black hair flowing down her back, dressed in leather thigh high boots and a short, black, form-fitting dress. Q felt something sink in his gut - _just his type_ , he thought. She walked a slow circle around Bond in the chair, her lip curling as she took in his injuries, the dart still sticking out of his neck. Someone else appeared in the corner of the screen - a small man, maybe? Carrying what Q thought had to be the most ominous leather briefcase he'd ever seen.

Suddenly the woman reached out and slapped Bond across the face, hard enough to leave a mark. Definitely hard enough to wake him up. Q typed frantically, cursing cheap Russian cameras under his breath, but it was no use. There was no audio on this machine and that was just going to have to be that.

Bond's eyes were opening, slowly but surely. Q did some rapid calculations about common tranquilizers and Bond's height and weight and response times - he shouldn't quite be awake yet, but 007 always did have a high tolerance. And that was quite a slap. He watched Bond's eyes snap into focus, and could practically read the thoughts behind them as the agent took in the room - the height-weight-fighting ability-allegiances of the participants, the kinds of guns, the availability of exits and entrances and possible makeshift weapons, his own physical state and restraints, distances from all the other people in the room, and a thousand other things that came as naturally to the 00s as breathing.

Bond's eyes did a quick scan of the room, spotting the camera Q was watching from, his eyes looking straight down it like the barrel of a gun. And then, so quickly that Q was fairly certain he had imagined it, Bond winked at him. It lasted less than a second, an eyeblink, and then Bond was looking straight ahead at the woman in front of him, and, god, _really_ , Double O? He was smiling.

Q could count on two hands the number of times he'd seen Bond smile on British soil, at and around MI6. Sometimes he smiled when he flirted with Moneypenny, or when he got some particularly good insult in at one of the lackeys, or when Q said something particularly clever at his expense. But it was rare, and they were sort of half hearted and tense. Now though, tied to a chair and bleeding, Bond was smirking like it was Christmas come early, his shoulders relaxed and loose, looking like he hadn't a care in the world and couldn't wait to see what happened next.

The man was absolutely insane. Q was in so much trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

Bond could feel the smile growing on his face, a real grin. This, he thought, was what he lived for. This was what he was good at. He liked a good tough situation, something that might seem impossible for anyone else. But he was not anyone else, he was James Bond.

Taking in the room around him, Bond quickly assessed his situation. Two enemy combatants, one exit, nothing in the room other than the chair he was sitting on. Well, sitting on was one way of looking at it. He was tied to the seat, wet leather strips chafing his wrists and irritating his skin. _Ah, the Russians,_ he thought as his smirk grew, _so patient in their torture._ They would wait until the leather dried, tightening on his skin, cutting off his circulation. They had nothing but time.

In front of him the woman spoke, her voice betraying a thin Russian accent, “You have been a very bad man today, agent.”

Bond’s eyes lit up. She did not know who he was. This was a huge advantage. “How do you mean?”

“You took out my guards,” she said, looking down at her red-lacquered and deadly-looking nails, “And you broke into the server room. That was not very kind of you.”

“No one has ever accused me of being _kind_ ,” Bond scoffed.

The woman turned quickly and nodded at the other man in the room. He was older, hunched over, and carrying a large leather case. The lines on his face seemed severe, and the glasses perched on his nose kept sliding down, in an absent-minded way. The case looked worn, used and not at all friendly. “This is my colleague, Mr. Kiriyanova. If I request it, Mr. Kiriyanova will open this bag he is holding. You would, I think, not like to see what is in Mr. Kiriyanova’s bag.”

Bond was only partially listening to the woman speak. Mostly he was moving his hands, his wrists, trying to get a feel for how he was being held. “It looks like a rather nice satchel,” Bond said, keeping a straight face.

“Mr. Kiriyanova comes from a family of cutlers, true artisans of blades.” The woman was clearly hitting her stride and not listening to Bond at all. “And with him he has some of the finest knives ever forged, with points so sharp they could split a hair.”

Next to her, Mr. Kiriyanova nodded along, agreeing with the praise. _Idiots_.

“You will tell me what it was you took from the server room,” the woman’s voice was now firm, and harsh, “Or I will have Mr. Kiriyanova show you exactly what his knives can do.”

“Pass,” said Bond, getting ready.

Her eyes narrowed, “Very well. Open the bag.”

The old man began to slowly open the satchel, the zipper moving slowly in his precise and aged hands, every millimeter loud and echoing in the room. This was just want Bond wanted. He did not bother trying to hide his grin. He made his move.

Bond jumped to his feet, using the momentum to swing the chair and hit the woman, making her stagger backward. Then he backed up in a run, slamming the outstretched legs of the chair into the wall at just the right angle. There was a sickening groan as the welds at the base were forced into tension they were not designed for, weakening and tearing.

It was not enough. Bond ran forward and back once more, hitting the wall with more force this time. Within seconds the chair gave, falling apart at its connections. He was no longer tied to a chair. Instead, he now had a the metal bars of the chair legs in each of his hands.

He turned to the woman and the old man, a manic smile on his face, swinging the bars back and forth playfully. Time for the fun to start.

The pipe against Mr. Kiriyanova’s face made a satisfying crunch. Blood splattered across Bond's face, ruining his crisp white collar - the grey silk tie, thankfully, remained unscathed. Bond turned to the lady in black as Mr. Kiriyanova’s body hit the ground. He could hear the last blood-filled intakes of breath - gurgling and bubbling grotesquely - as he stepped towards the Russian woman.

Her cornflower blue eyes, lined in silver and black, traveled from the deceased Mr. Kiriyanova and her two men to him - and she smiled. "MI6? I should have known, that is a nice suit."

He was close enough to kill her now, easily and without effort, but Bond could see a mood change. He looked down at her, blue meeting blue, in a moment of understanding.

"And who are you?" He said hoarsely, backing her against the wall.

"Names are not important here - are they, 00?"

\---

Q reeled back from his screen, the force of their kiss unexpectedly bruising him.

The phone rang, cutting off Q’s distressing chain of thought. He kept his eyes on the screen as he answered it, watching as 007 and the dark woman intertwined.

"I'm sending up the 00s to be briefed on their travel arrangements, Q," said M into his ear. "Is everything in order?"

Travel arrangements. He hadn't even thought about them; all he'd done was race up to his computer to find the video feed and he’d been glued to it ever since. Bond and the woman were still kissing - he was moving his lips to her throat now, and she had her head thrown back and a wide grin on her face, her eyes closed.

"We may not need them," said Q, his tone clipped in a way that he hoped sounded professional.

"Oh?" M's voice did not change in the least; as if this were merely an update in the weather. "Has 007 made contact, then?"

"No, no," said Q. _Well, contact of a sort_. "I've hacked into the feed on the room where they've got him. He, uh, seems to have the situation under control. I'll patch you in."

There was a moment of silence on the other side of the phone as Q's long fingers flew over the keyboard. "You have the feed of his position?"

"Yes," said Q, typing.

"And you didn't think to mention this to me until now?"

Drat. "Patching you in now, sir," said Q, going for helpful professionalism rather than answering questions.

"I see," M said, and hung up.

Still holding the dead phone to his ear, Q's focus turned back to the screen in front of him. Bond's hands were on the woman's waist now, pressing her against the wall. Her hands were around his shoulders and moving forward, skittering down his shirt, opening the buttons one by one as her lips traced his collarbone. Really, he knew 007's reputation, but were they really going to have sex in a torture chamber, with a bunch of incapacitated bloody bodies all around them? Bond himself was bleeding still, and his hands were covered in blood, blood that he was smearing onto her dress, her skin. He pulled her towards him fiercely - Q winced - and their mouths came together again as they stumbled sideways, their bodies turning, still pressed together. The woman was closer to the camera now, and Q could see, even with the grainy resolution of the camera, a bruise blooming on her neck, the shape of Bond's lips.

A click in the corner of his screen let him know that M had logged off the feed, apparently deciding he had seen enough. Q wanted to stop watching, too, to pull away, to let the agents take care of it. He started to turn his head but then, suddenly, Bond shifted his weight and the woman's lips moved down to his neck. Bond’s eyes opened and Q was staring right into those pupils, a silvery flash in the darkness, so blue they were almost transparent. Bond's eyes never wavered from the camera, even as the woman's dark hair moved lower on his throat, his chest, her hands moving even lower. Bond's hands stroked down her back, pulling her hips closer to him, but his eyes stayed on the camera in the corner, staring, through thousands of miles of fibre cables and electrical wire and computer codes, right at Q. Q felt pinned, held, like he couldn't look away, his own eyes wide and dark as he looked at the screen. He wished he could call out or say something or reach out through the camera screen, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing but watch, as the woman tossed her head back and laughed, then came in to kiss Bond once more, her hands under his trousers. Bond kissed back, his mouth moving with hers but his eyes staying open, fixed on Q's, on the screen.

The phone receiver dangled from Q's hand as the hubbub of the lab around him faded to a hush and his eyes stayed on the computer in front of him. At last, Bond blinked and shifted, and then, so fast Q almost missed it, Bond's hand reached out and hit something, twisted, and the woman's body jerked and then went slack. As she slid off of Bond, her dark hair sliding down his bare chest., Bond's eyes went back to the camera, his bloody hands at his side, a black shadow pooling and collapsing at his feet.

Q wasn't breathing, and his dick was almost hard.

Bond winked at the camera, Q was sure of it this time, and then he was gone.

Q was left staring at a blank screen, containing no agent. Well, no living agent. There was nothing on the monitor but the corpses left in the interrogation room. Quickly as he could, Q began to flip through the video feeds, trying to figure out what had happened to Bond.

But 007 was moving almost too fast to catch, and Q could not find him on any of the cameras in the warehouse. Every time Q thought he saw a glimpse of a heel or the flash of an elbow, it was gone within seconds. Bond was like a ghost, moving with heretofore unseen swiftness. He was invisible, imbued with stealth Q could never even imagine having.

Following these practically impossible hints, Q managed to track Bond through the final passage, to the final door and out of the building. With just a swish of his jacket, Q knew Bond was out the door and into the light. He let out the breath he had been holding, running his fingers through his hair, and tried to calm down his rapid heartbeat. Bond was in the clear, for now. All he had to do now was get to the extraction team, less than a mile away.

The first portion of the mission was over. Soon Bond would be back with the files. Q ached to get his hands on the drive Bond was carrying. All that information, soon to be at his fingertips.

Perhaps, Q thought to himself, turning red that was not _all_ he was itching to get into his hands. Bond.

Every time Q closed his eyes, even just to blink, he saw 007. Sitting there, tied to the chair, his shirt open. He saw the blue-purple bruise blossoming on Bond’s left shoulder. And the way his chest had glistened in the pale light of the room. Muscles tense and hard, coiled up to act and set himself free.

Resisting the urge to bury his face him his hand, Q took a deep breath and picked up the phone. “007 is out,” he said to M.

“Good.” M did not bother to react, “I expect a full report on _Matareya_ as soon as possible.”

Q hung up without answering. Of course that was the priority, Q knew that. They needed to find out what the Russians were doing in the middle of the Egyptian desert. What were they hiding? And how could they be stopped?


	3. Chapter 3

It took four days for James Bond to get back to England. Four days, 9 hours and 16 minutes before he walked into Q's office to hand over his gun (the only piece of tech he hadn't destroyed beyond repair) and the Matareya flash drive.

"Don't say I never give you anything." Q's ears ring with a neck-breaking crack that he never heard and the image of cascading black hair.

"I would never dream of it, Double O." Bond's eyes, ice blue today, scan him as if he is a target - checking for weaknesses and areas to exploit. Q honestly doesn't know what he sees beyond a young but stern Quartermaster with glasses and a red cardigan.

"So, we're done then?" Q honestly doesn't know how to answer - it's a simple enough question - but questions are never simple around a Double O.

"Yes. I'll brief you on what you need to know about Matareya after I decode this little gem," Q says, turning his chair from Bond's probing eyes and back to his computer screen.

Bond must have watched him for some time, because it was exactly 2 minutes and 54 seconds before he heard the slow pressurized close of his soundproof door.

It had been three days - three days with no sleep and a lot of coffee (tea just wasn't doing the job). He hated that bitter brown liquid; the things Q did for Queen and Country! Matareya turned out to be very interesting indeed. The Russians were supplying the religious extremist leg of the Muslim Brotherhood with all sorts of little treats: weapons, information, pretty men and women - in return for several hundred acres in Matareya, workers, and a safe space to test their next-gen nuclear weapon - far from Europe's prying eyes and conveniently located in a satellite blackout.

Q was just finishing his briefing report. 007 had remained on the mission, per M's orders, and Q had recommended he pose as some sort of Russian curator - of weapons or women, Bond would exceed at both. Q swallowed, he hadn't had time to really give thought to his feeling of James, the hot and cold nature of him, and the fear he evoked. No doubt Q would dream, if he had time to dream, of Death with blue eyes.

\-- 

Bond walked into M's office, stealing a blueberry scone from Moneypenny with a wink, just in time to catch the last bit of boring briefing from the Q office.

"... the facility is completely under a satellite cloak. It will be nearly impossible to predict the technology they would be using for compound security. Given Bond's admitted lack of technical skill..." Q glanced at Bond and he sat down. "... I recommend a on-site technical backup. Maybe 003? He is..." Q wrinkled his nose in contemplation, "adequate with computer systems."

"Ah, Bond, you're here," said M as he strode through the door. "How bad are you at decoding state of the art technology you have never seen before, exactly? Q seems to think you would have difficulty with a pocket calculator."

Bond scowled.

Q was piping up again now, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "It's actually not going to be decoding so much as some basic network analysis of the electronic circuitry. Maybe some improvisation on source code location initiation to trick the program ..." Bond zoned out, as usual, munching his pastry and watching M's eyes glaze over. That little mop of hair certainly could talk a lot, couldn't he? Bond let the words wash over him and watched Q's mouth move, the quirk at the corner of his lips when he spoke.

"Yes, all right, Q, I don't actually need to know the specifics," said M, cutting him off. "You and Bond will work it out between the two of you when you get there."

"Me, sir?" Q squeaked, actually squeaked. A faint blush was stealing up his cheeks, under the stubble that had grown there. Interesting, thought Bond.

"Given that I did not understand more than three words of your previous speech, and I believe my technical skills are at least as good as 003's, it seems patently obvious that you will have to be the one to do the job," M said. His tone did not allow for argument - this was an order, and they were all soldiers. "Bond will get you into the facility and provide cover, and you will do...whatever it is you do to the actual systems."

"But, sir-" Q was distinctly not looking at Bond, and he seemed slightly panicky.

"Q, I am not paying for you to take a boat across the Atlantic, and this needs to happen soon." M's tone had moved from professional to brusque, and Bond knew that meant they were soon to be thrown out of the office. "I don't care that you're afraid of flying. You will get on an airplane, which you can survive, and you will go to Egypt and you will do. Your. Job." With that, M's back turned, which every agent knew meant "get out of my office and go do the thing I told you to do."

Bond had forgotten that Q was afraid of flying. He wondered if that was really what was making the quartermaster so nervous about their upcoming travels, and smiled.

 

Twelve hours later, Bond was drinking his first vodka martini on an MI6 jet somewhere over Europe and eyeing his cabin mate. The younger man was hunched in his seat, staring out his window with his arms wrapped around his ribs. Bond let his eyes drift over him, taking in the rumpled cardigan, the black curls shaking down to his shoulders, the tense long fingers drumming at his sides. Q was a bit of a mystery to him. He was so young - a child, really - working there at MI6, wielding mass destruction with a tap of his fingers. There was an innocence about him, something sheltered and breakable. An indoor kid, thought Bond, like the other desk jockeys, a man in a box responding to symbols on a screen.

Usually when James Bond met a person, he decided within a few seconds what he wanted to do with them. Kill, fuck or ignore were the basic options. Sometimes they had to be listened to, or obeyed, or hurt but not killed, or fucked and then killed, and so on. Bond never worried himself overmuch with consequences or next steps, and he certainly did not believe in delayed gratification. Either he did what he wanted then, or things changed and he did what he wanted later.

But with Q, he wasn't sure. He had been so thrown when they first met, in the museum, so shocked that this child with the glasses and a coat far too big for him was the new quartermaster. And he'd been distracted, then, returning from the dead and dealing with Silva, his mind racing and his senses dulled. He hadn't decided what to do with Q, and now time had passed and Q was still there, teasing him and being teased, with that little smile at the corner of his mouth, and he still hadn't decided. Which was new, for Bond. Q was a mystery. And, Bond thought, as the plane bumped a little and Q sucked in a breath as he tensed, he always liked mysteries.

All the color was drained from the younger man’s face. He looked sallow and drawn, as if he might pass out right there in his seat. Bond was not exactly sure why -- it was just a bit of turbulence, he had been through worse. Curiously he tilted his head just so slightly to the right and asked, “Are you going to be sick?”

Q’s eyes were squeezed shut, like he could not stand the thought of opening them.“Not if I can help it.”

“You look like you might be sick,” Bond pointed out, in what he hoped was a helpful tone.

The plane hit another patch of rough air. Bond took another sip of his drink and watched in fascination as Q grabbed onto the armrests of his seat, his knuckles going white at his fierce grip. 

“I wish the plane were not tossing and jolting so violently,” Q said through clenched teeth, his chin tilted down and his legs braced firmly on the ground.

“This will not be the most violent thing you experience on this trip, I can assure you.” Bond was trying to be reassuring. What was some bad air to someone who could face down a building full of snipers? Or a cabal of fighters? It was nothing. Bond almost wanted to scoff, but he held himself back. “This is as safe as we will be until we return to London.”

Q looked up at him slowly, his eyes turbulent and grey, like the sky before a storm.“If you knew what I do about aerodynamics and commercial airline fleets, you would not be so cavalier.”

“Hmm,” Bond hummed, thinking, “That is why you hate to fly?”

“One reason,” Q said shortly, looking down again, averting Bond’s gaze.

Bond, on the other hand, felt he was learning quite a bit. If he was going to work in the field with this young man, he needed to know that he could keep his cool. “Perhaps what you need is a distraction,” Bond suggested, “so you are not thinking about the fear.”

There was a short paused, Q giving him a strange look, before hesitantly asking, “Is that what you do? When your life is in danger? Distraction?”

“My life,” Bond said rather confidently, “is rarely in danger I can’t get out of.”

+++

Once on the ground, Q was finally able to let out the breath he had been holding. The heat and humidity in the air, however, made it rather difficult.

From the second Q touched his feet to the ground (the lovely lovely ground) he had been whisked from car, to bus, and now finally on a camel. A camel. If Q didn't know better, he would assume Bond had been playing a trick on him.

Q was irritated. It wasn’t just the flight that had irritated him, or the itch itch itch in his fingertips, reaching out to a keyboard that wasn’t there; it had to be Bond’s attitude on the plane. It was as if the agent didn’t understand what an irrational fear was. Come to think of it, he probably didn’t.

Bond’s words about danger did nothing but set Q on edge. He wasn’t one of Bond’s girls who needed reassuring. He was the Quartermaster and he sent men and women to their potential deaths every day. He watched as his code wormed through software – emptying banks, blowing up buildings, making the world safe for Queen and Country.

He wasn’t a girl and he wasn’t a child. Though, he thought mournfully, he felt like one. He signed up with MI6 because M had promised him a comfy desk job and all the tech money could buy – but that was a different M, and instead of being inside his glass and wire box, going outside into the damp London nights only to sleep (when he did ), he was in Egypt – with the sun, the heat and the sand. His complexion wasn’t built for this, he thought, as he wrapped the scarf tighter around his face.

For the record, camels do not make comfortable riding companions. It didn't help that he was left holding onto James's midsection for the entirety of the ride. Budget demands, bullocks, he knew how much was in the budget - he regularly spent a nice chunk of it thankyouverymuch. 

The double O felt solid all the way through, more rock than man. On top of emasculating him in a way he hadn't anticipated on this trip (he had anticipated 237 ways, riding a camel with his arms around 007 made 238) it didn't help to quiet that peeving voice in the back of his head. The one that was both thrilled and terrified. His skin felt electrified and sensitive, it might even have been a pleasurable (though ill-advised) trip if the tail of Bond's red and white patterned turban didn't keep swatting him in the face every few minutes. 

The sun was setting in the horizon. Burning the desert brick red and shining gold. The wind cooling the damp dark curls on the back of Q's neck. It was perfect.

"The Circle of Life" came unbidden, racking Q with silent laughter. 007 turned to give him one of his patented death glares.

"Am I ruining your brooding?"

Bond scoffed, "What's made you so suddenly cheerful?"

Q smirked, "You're too old to get the reference."

Bond frowned, lines ceasing between his steel blue gaze. "Try me, boy."

Q raised one perfect eyebrow. "Lion King."

Bond stared him down, sending heat to pool deep in his gut. It was suddenly there again, that look that took stock of everything Q had to offer. He wished he knew what Bond saw in him. For all of Bond’s lack of empathy, a trait trained into agents not born with the skill, Bond didn't treat him like anyone else at MI6 and Q could not fathom why he stood out in the agent's mind. The sun was almost set, the sky darkening to azure and amethyst. It was easy to see what brought so many women to Bond's bed, the sky-shared-shade of his stare demanded obedience. Q held back a shuddering breath when Bond turned around - once again thankful to be left alone and painfully bored.

He missed his tech.


	4. Chapter 4

A low white building appeared on the horizon, shimmering in the sand and the setting sun. From their distance all Q could see was white walls and an ominous barbed wire fence in front of it. He looked for barrels marked 'hazardous waste' or something else telling, but there was nothing outside the building. Sand and the setting sun, for miles around.

The air was turning cold quickly as the sun set, and the desert was almost pitch black, the only light the chill glow of the big spotlights on the building up ahead, spaced at regular intervals to catch intruders. Intruders like them.

Q buried his head into his collar, and the camel walked closer to the lights.

When they neared the first of the barbed wire fences, Bond turned the camel sharply to the left. They had only been walking into the darkness for a few feet when a noise came out of the darkness. Someone was ... whistling?

"Is that ‘Goldfinger’?" asked Q.

"Let's hope so," said Bond. The camel had stopped, and Bond slid off sideways and awkwardly dropped to the ground. Q stared - that had been the least graceful thing he had ever seen a Double 0 do, let alone Bond. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Bond glared at the animal. "Next time we're taking a motorbike," he said, and spat on the ground before looking up at Q, his eyes reflective in the dark, like a cat. Q may have been gaping - Bond being ungraceful, and Bond hating that camel ride as much as he did? - until the agent said, "Well? Are you coming or not?"

Q hastily dropped himself off the side of the hated beast, landing more gently than Bond had in the sand. He smirked at that, looking up to make some cutting remark, but Bond was already striding off into the darkness, moving over the sand like he could float. Q scowled again - apparently one graceless moment was all he got - and followed.

Over the next dune was a man holding a gun. Bond walked right up to him, of course - "man holding a gun" was to Bond what "carefully encrypted microchip" was to Q - and the man stopped whistling and broke into a grin, white teeth glowing in the darkness.

"Hello, Bond," he said.

"Impressive whistling," said Bond, and shook the man's hand, his whole body loose again, what Q was beginning to understand meant "happy" in psychopathic secret agent we-can’t-have-expressions-on-our-faces world. Turning, Bond said, "Q, this is Edward de Souza."

Q nodded. "Our handler here."

de Souza laughed. "I doubt anyone can "handle" our friend here, in any way." It was dark, but Q thought Bond's eyes, watching Q climb the dune, flicked down his body at that.

de Souza lead them down the dune, to a waiting truck. It was old, rusty and covered in sand. There was no roof and the bed of the pickup was filled with containers of grain. There were also only two seats, for the driver and one passenger. And the passenger seat was filled by a large, drooling dog, which gave them a lazy look as they walked up, not budging at all.

“This is our ride?” Q asked, with a raised eyebrow.

There was certainly no place for two more people to ride. There barely seemed to be enough room for the driver. de Souza’s main task was to get them into the compound, as close as possible to the building containing the reactor. From there, Bond would get them in and Q would remove the core and render the weapon powerless. That was the plan at least. Q had been on the earpiece for enough missions to not hold much hope. These things never did run smoothly, did they?

With open arms and a smirk, de Souza gestured grandly to the transportation he was supposed to be providing. “My finest truck this side of the Nile.”

“Do we ride underneath?” Bond looked around, curiously, not sounding concerned at all. For some reason this infuriated Q. No one had said anything to him about all this. First a plane? Then camels? And now this? He was never going out into the field again. “Holding on to the carriage?”

With a flourish, de Souza walked to the bed of the truck and opened a latch. It released a lock, and suddenly they were not looking at containers of grain. Three opened together, revealing a hidden compartment. It was not very big, not enough for two people, but it did sound safer than holding onto the bottom of a truck. “You will ride in here” de Souza told them.

“Both of us?” Q practically squeaked.

While, at the same time, Bond spoke, saying, “What if they pull you over and inspect what’s in the containers?”

de Souza ignored Q and addressed the seasoned agent, “They are designed to open traditionally too, from the top. And there is enough grain in there to fool any guard.”

Without another word, Bond nodded and hopped up into the open box. Q looked around himself and gulped. This was it. He really did not have a choice. So he followed. It was a tight fit, but Q managed to maneuver himself into the cramped quarters. However, there was not really enough space to do so and maintain personal space. His knees were tucked up into his body, pressed against Bond’s chest.

The lid was closed and suddenly, they were in complete dark, no more moon or stars in the sky. Just pitch black. And heat. Two men in the small space, with no obvious opening to the outside world. Already Q could feel his cheeks turning red.

The truck started up underneath them and Q could feel the rumble of the engine. And then the motion, as they began on their way. Into the compound.

Every now and then the car would hit a rock or a divot and Q's body would crash into the 00's. Q's sharp limbs and angles kept landing in various and sometimes painful places on Bond's body. After a rather sudden and violent dip that had Q miss his nethers by not an inch, Bond decided he'd had enough.

"Hey, what! Bond, no... don't touch me there." In the dark Bond grabbed limbs and torso and leg (and accidentally once, something a bit higher, Bond smirked - more impressive than he had thought) and arranged Q into his lap. Bonds legs pretzeling Q's to keep him still and steady.

"Well, this is degrading, I'll add that to the list."

Bond huffed, moving his chin to Q's shoulder and his arms around his waist. "What list?"

"The list of how many different ways you were going to emasculate me on this little adventure." Q sounded less bothered and more breathless. The heat between them fierce and rising in the dark. Bond craned his neck, his nose sliding against the long pane of Q's damp chin, vying for more air.

He could feel Q swallow.

The truck bumped along, Bond mentally mapping it's route. They must be getting close now. de Souza was going to put them near the back entrance, which he said had fewer guards, especially at this time of night. Bond felt the pressure of his 9mm at his waist, on the other side from Q, and started thinking of angles, bullets, blind spots, contingency plans, his mind relaxing as it ran over well-worn paths.

The wheel directly underneath them hit a particularly sharp rock and jolted both their bodies into the air for a whole second. When they came back down, Q's hand hit Bond's thigh, sharp and hard enough to sting. Bond winced, but it wasn't worth saying anything. Where else was Q going to put his hands, exactly? They were cramped enough as it was. That must have been the line of the fence they went over - there was a blockade there, he remembered from the plans. de Souza had gotten them past it, they were almost there.

He could feel the tension in Q’s body, in front of him, the hard lines of his shoulder blades pressing into his chest, his spine stiff and straight. Q’s hand was still on his thigh. Bond could feel the weight of it, the heat, even through the fabric of his trousers. Q’s fingers started tapping, a nervous tic, like he was typing something one handed, or pushing buttons as quickly as possible, fast and light, trails of sensation ghosting against Bond’s flesh. In the dark Bond couldn't tell exactly where those fingers were, couldn't see what they attached to, couldn't read Q's face or his body. His awareness shrank down to that one line of sensation, the spots of heat moving up and down his leg, feeling so impossibly warm in the dark.

“Practicing?” said Bond, his voice quiet, trying not to scare Q’s fingers away.

Q’s hand froze in place, two fingers and a thumb on Bond’s leg, a light pressure against him. Bond felt Q’s lungs inhale against him, his shoulders rising, brushing against Bond’s cheek. His body relaxed as he exhaled, a controlled motion, willfully calming his muscles. In the dark Bond imagined he could see some of that nervous coiled energy leaving Q, drifting off him, evaporating, turning into heat between them. Q’s hand flattened and stayed against Bond’s thigh.

Bond let out the breath he was holding, and shifted, slightly, moving the relevant leg closer to Q, his weight a bit more behind him. The rocks and bumps from outside seemed a long way away, and inside the truck it was quiet, the hush of anticipation. Q shifted in front of him, towards him, backing up into Bond's chest an inch further. Something like a laugh bubbled up in Bond's throat, emerging as a noise between a chuckle and a growl. Q's spine straightened slightly at the sound before relaxing, pushing even closer to Bond, the heat against him filling his mind, the smell of sweat and sand and Earl Grey tea, Q's long black curls tickling his lips. He seemed calmer now. Focused. Bond recognized the state: mission readiness. Focused on the task at hand. Blocking out everything else.

Bond reached a hand up, looking to find Q's shoulder in the dark and trail his own fingers down it, but there was a massive jerk, and the car stopped. Both of their bodies tensed and stilled, stuck in a moment all their own, forced to return to the world outside this small dark space, the desert and the compound and the mission.

The ceiling opened, and de Souza's grin shone down at them. "Door to door service," he said. "Can't beat that."

He backed away, and Bond craned his neck up, looking at the stars, trying to remember what was so important about this destination that Q needed to uncurl against him, the desert air feeling cold against his chest and legs.

Q reached an arm out to the edge of the compartment and lifted himself up, swinging a leg over gracefully and landing softly on the sand, all in one motion. Bond sat up knees, looking out.

"That was impressively flexible," he said to Q, who was standing on the sand, looking at the heavy black door in front of them, his fingers twitching.

"I do a lot of yoga," said Q, and Bond could hear the smile on his lips.

" _Really_?"

Q turned back towards the truck, his profile dark against the stars and the dunes behind him, the moonlight glinting off the corner of his glasses. His eyes were impossible to see in this light, deep pools of darkness in the shadows of his face. He exhaled again, his fingers stretching and stilling, his limbs long and loose in the moonlight.

"There are lots of things I am good at, too, Bond," he said, a flash of white teeth as he smiled. "Including some things you may not know about."

Bond stared out at the darkness, the sky, the compound and his quartermaster for a moment, and then hoisted himself out of the truck.


	5. Chapter 5

The back door proved easy enough between Bond's shooting and Q's access codes. Once inside, there were only two guards running at them - de Souza had been right, this entrance was barely guarded. Bond shot the first one squarely in the heart, and felt the usual blankness that settled on him when shooting started. He caught sight of Q's face, looking down at the man's corpse bleeding on the floor. Bond almost rolled his eyes, but, for Q, he didn't kill the other guard, merely incapacitated him with a shot in the shoulder and a gun barrel over the head. That might come back to haunt him later, but Q looked relieved.

+++

With each crack of Bond’s gun expelling a bullet, Q found himself flinching unintentionally. Like all MI6 agents, Q had gone through basic training. He was qualified to be in the field, he liked to believe M would not have sent him out if that were not true. But just because he could shoot a gun did not mean he was comfortable with it.

Somehow, not being the one in control of the weapon actually made it worse. Well, that was not exactly true. It was Bond doing the shooting that made it harder to bear. Sure, the man was a crack shot. Every bullet went exactly where the man wanted it to. He was, after all, the one with the license to kill. But it was that freedom which concerned Q. If you could kill anyone, do anything, without any repercussions, what was to stop you? Where did it end?

Q watched Bond’s face as he mowed down the two agents in the hall. His face was devoid of emotion. If anything, the most content Bond ever looked was after he fired his gun.

Every kill Q heard or saw weighed heavily on his mind. He had nightmares about the thud bodies made over the earwig during missions. These casualties were necessary for the mission, but Q could not help but feel. He felt because he was worried Bond did not.

To be a remorseless killer certainly had its perks. But Q could not help letting out a small sigh when Bond only injured the second guard. He was still not going to be getting up any time soon, and he was losing a lot of blood. But he would live. And that was one less ghost left to haunt Q. He would take the breaks wherever he could.

“Stay at my six,” Bond called, as he pushed on down the hall, “and follow my lead.”

Q had his gun out and ready, too -- he was in enemy territory after all. He would not rely on Bond to protect him totally. He took off after the 00 agent. “Do you know where we are going?”

“I can guess,” Bond called over his shoulder, not slowing.

Q could guess too. The building was old and looked like it was falling apart at the seams. In fact, the whole compound was. Everything, except however, an addition on the side. While the rest of the facility seemed like it had been around for ages, there was one wing which was shining and new, barely touched by the winds and sands of the desert. And why have such a building if not to keep your most important work protected? That was surely where the weapon was.

As they got closer, the security in the building seemed to amplify. Each door was harder to get past then the one before it. While Bond had been able to shoot out the first few locks, they were now bullet proof and protected by an intense electronic scanner.

This was why Q was there. Bond protected the entrance to the corridor as Q went to work, opening up the back panel. Twenty seconds and a trip wire shorted later and the pressurized door opened for them with a hiss. “Got it,” Q said, not able to help the grin from his face. There was something satisfying about solving a puzzle like that, even in the middle of a life and death situation. It was what he was good at.

The two men continued on their way.

Bond had to kill 24 men to get Q to the reactor's core. It was strange; Q had definitely killed more than 24 men at a time, but distance, glass and fibers created a sort of shield. He never had to look into the eyes of someone as they fell less than five feet from where he stood, watch their final breath - it made you think of their mothers, sisters, brothers, lovers. It made Q think of all the things he never thought of in his Apple-store-like office, pushing buttons, sending countless men, women, (and yes, that one time) children to their deaths.

He didn't want to get used to the feeling.

Bond, on the other hand, had been magnificent Completely professional, unflinching - a weapon of precision - like a surgeon carving out a path for them. But whenever Bond turned to check on Q, he made sure his eyes were elsewhere. Q didn't want to get trapped in that blue stare again - it would be worse this time, seeing it live and in action right in front of him. If it paralyzed him through a 10-year-old sub-par Russian surveillance camera, Q honestly couldn't predict the effect it would have on him now.

It was a relief to have his hands on a keyboard again. His focus completely on the mission at hand, Q's glasses reflecting the blue and black monitor.

"Q, how much longer?"

Impatient, Q thought. "Double 0 , do you have any idea how complicated this particular piece of coding is?"

Bond sounded frustrated, "No, but that is why you are here - isn't it?" Metallic steps kept getting closer and the clicking of keys kept getting faster. "They are almost here." Bond ran across the room, to stand guard at the door, preparing for assault.

"I just... about... have it. Done!" Q closed his mini laptop and disconnected it from the computer’s main processor. "Let's go."

Sudden panic rose in Q's gut as an arm wrapped around his midsection, he could feel the cold steel of a barrel pressed against his temple. Quickly, as if a switch was flipped, panic gave way to calculated strategy. Without thinking Q stepped on his attackers instep, elbowed him in the gut, and using his weight, flipped the man onto his head.

Q knew it would happen - before he even started the maneuver - he could see the end clear as day. And there it was, the sound that haunted his thoughts; high pitched, sitting on top of the metal boom from the body's impact with the catwalk, the definitive snapping of the man's neck.

He met Bond's wide blue eyes from across the room. He looked shocked and, if Q didn’t know better, slightly panicked. Q breathed in, carefully placing his stoic mask back in place, and straightened his glasses, "I told you - there are a lot of things I am good at."

Bond eyed Q skeptically, "MI6 only trains non-agents up to green belt for personal defense training, that looked more like..."

"Kyoshi level of Karate? It was. I'm a 7 dan level black belt."

"Why?"

"I found during training that I was particularly adept at the art. Once I find a skill that I am more than proficient in - I always follow it through."

Bond looked at Q knowingly, studying the lines of his body. "Every skill?"

"Always." 

There was a far off sound of gunshot, and Bond's gaze left Q's, his head whipping around towards the door, his gun up again. The blankness was back in his eyes, the calculating movements. He nodded towards the door, and Q stepped over the corpse he'd made and walked out, behind Bond.

Q felt shaky as he walked quickly along the corridors, off balance, like the ground beneath him was tilting slightly. For all his easy flippancy with Bond, that was the first time he'd ever killed anyone. Killed them with his hands, felt the physical weight of the body as it fell, smelled the sweat and blood around him. He had pressed buttons and shot rockets and exploded things. The things he built were weapons, meant to cause damage and hurt people, even if the reports they passed around couched it in phrases like 'increasing proximate lethality' or 'options in kinetic energy hyper-velocity. Q knew what his job was. He knew what his work did. Until now, he had never touched it himself.

He expected, actually, to feel more, to feel worse. Instead his brain was racing, analyzing their route and the noises around them and trying to calculate how he could wire himself into the security system and estimating escape times. And following Bond, watching the man as he rounded corners with that same twist every time, his gun out first, and then his eyes, always watching, waiting, calculating. Was this how Bond got that way? Was every kill in the field merely a strategic move for him, a matter of angles and timing, immediately forgotten as the next challenge presented itself? Q didn't want to forget, but already, he knew he was. Knew he wouldn't remember the face of his assailant, the exact way his neck broke, his own reaction to it. He shook his head, quickly. He hoped this was his last field mission.

"Last door," said Bond quickly from up ahead. On the other side should be de Souza and their truck, the way out, the way home, back to London, back to his shiny walls and soundproof doors and the computers and files that Q was used to.

Bond kicked the door open. Q was startled - had they been inside that long? Was it really daylight already? It was so bright out. As he walked through the door and his eyes adjusted, he saw that the light came not from the sun but from the spotlights on the bunker, turned on their highest, flooding the sand in front of the door with light, a white sea of electricity in the middle of the dark desert. Q squinted, blinking. Where was the truck? Was that de Souza in front of them?

As his eyes adjusted, Q saw that it was not, in fact, de Souza. The woman in front of them was tall and broad, with long black hair that flapped in the wind. Tattoos ran up her neck, black spiky lines and letters in a language Q didn't recognize. She stood grinning at them, her eyes smug. She was missing an arm, Q realized. Below her left shoulder was a chunk of flesh, pitted and frayed, skin hanging off and scar tissues across the top. It was gruesome and disgusting, and, Q thought, purely for show. That was an old wound, she could have had it cleaned and fixed long ago. Below the shoulder something was strapped to her left side, a metal box. Her right arm held a gun, pointed at them.

Bond swore, under his breath. "Bayani," he said, his voice full of venom. "I didn't know you were in Egypt."

Bayani smiled, and fingered the trigger on her gun. "I will always make the trip to see you, Bond."

Bond's eyes were ice cold and his jaw was a hard line as he looked at Bayani, but Q's eyes had slid behind the woman, to the truck behind her. "Bond," he said, under his breath. "de Souza."

de Souza's body was leaning out of the driver's seat, as if he was about to swing down and meet them. A long gash trailed down his chest, bloody and gaping, the flesh open and raw, mutilated by something sharp and complex. Blood trailed down his arm and dripped off the tips of his fingers onto the sand. His eyes were open, staring, and his mouth was twisted in what must have been one last scream of pain.

"Ed," said Bond, his voice hollow.

Q nodded, though Bond wasn’t looking at him. Whatever had cut de Souza’s chest, it looked like an incredibly painful way to die.

Bayani was smirking. “Oh, you noticed? I left you a present.”

Bond was staring at the truck, the man and the blood, frozen. They needed to get out of there, away from the scary one-armed woman with the gun in front of them and the sounds of running boots behind them. There was only one way to go - sideways, as fast as they could, until they found the next step. Q ran to Bond, put a hand on his shoulder and kept running, but Bond didn't move, didn't seem to notice, was still staring at Bayani and at the truck. Shit. Q stopped and stood in front of Bond, stared directly into those eyes, endlessly blue and endlessly sad, and felt his own heart lurch and sink again, but no time to think about that now. "Bond," he said, putting his hands on Bond's jaw, bringing his face as close as he could, trying to bring some life back into those eyes through sheer force of will. "Bond, we have to go."

Behind him he heard a click, a rustle. Bayani, with her gun. He was between her and Bond now, exposed. His heart was racing.

"James," he said, his voice soft, only inches from Bond's lips, "James, run!"

+++

For a second, just one miniscule moment, James was frozen in his place, dumbstruck by the sight in front of him. de Souza was dead. The way out was gone. And they were in danger. Immediately, his sense of self preservation kicked in and, seeing that Q was already running, he followed his lead. Bond was faster than Q and overtook him without much effort.

Both men ran, pounding their feet into the sand, stride after stride. They were being pursued, that was obvious, and the distance between the agents and their attacker was not large. 

Bond looked over his shoulder, to make sure Q was still on his heels, that he had not lost the younger man. The tell-tale bobbing of floppy hair was close behind, and Bond was relieved to know that the man could keep up, could care for himself.

Unfortunately, running with his head turned was not the best way to keep his eye on the path in front of himself.

There was a dip in the sand, a small sinkhole, and Bond's left foot went directly into it. Not expecting the change of ground, Bond was thrown for a moment and lost his footing.

Then a snap!

Pain. Overwhelming pain shot up Bond's leg, emanating from a place just above his foot. Like lightning, uncontrollable and unexpected. He took a moment to allow himself a grimace.

Bond was on the ground, his ankle bent at an angle it normally could not reach. He looked around and assessed the situation. Q was nearly at his side and their pursuer less than a kilometer behind.

This was not impossible. Bond had gotten himself out of worse situations. He pulled himself up as quickly as he could, prepared to keep going. Taking a few hesitant steps forward, he knew it was not an option. There was no way he could run on it, not without causing irreparable damage. He would not be able to make it on his own. This was the worst possible of all the outcomes. Bond was an independent man. He was not used to relying on others, specifically when there were lives on the line.

He placed his foot on the ground again and knew. Going on alone was not an option. “Q!” he exclaimed, as the younger man caught up to his side

“What are you doing?” Q looked frantic, “We have to go.”

Bond grit his teeth, not even liking to say the words, “I need help.”

Q followed Bond’s gaze to his injury, his eyes growing wider with understanding. He saw the swollen limb, the red irritation and the strange set of the left ankle and foot. “You’re hurt,” Q said, sounding shocked, like he could not believe the 00 agent was capable of injury to his own body.

The younger man did not wait for Bond to respond. Instead he rushed to his side and wrapped an arm around his waist. Bond threw his own arm over Q’s shoulder, so that he could help bear his weight.

They ran.

Bond did some quick calculations. They were approximately 2 miles from the nearest safehouse, at their current speed they would reach it in approximately 25 minutes (Fuck sand, thought Bond), their would-be-captors would be in easy shooting range in 8 minutes. They couldn't keep running.

Bond loosened his watch and let it fall to the ground, quickly steering Q forcibly to the left.

"What are you doing?" Q's glasses were askew, making his wide eyes look even larger.

"Where is the trust, Q?"

"I think I left it back there with de Souza." Q winced, his mouth open in apology when Bond threw him to the ground.

"Down!" Using his momentum he landed squarely on Q's torso, taking the pressure of the fall off of his ankle. He moved himself into position, with a noticeable silence from Q. "I need you to get that transmitter working. We need a retrieval team and we need one quick. Once I take care of this team they'll send others."

"How do you plan to take care of these guys?" Q's hair was sticking up at every angle, it was enormously endearing. Bond actually found himself smiling as lifted his now watchless arm, his right forefinger and thumb bracketing the ring on his left middle finger.

"With a little bit of firepower, of course." Bond waited till he could see the heads of their pursuers breaking along the dunes in front of him before twisting the hidden compartment in the ring to the left. He dove for Q, covering him, and the watch exploded right on target. His ears were ringing. Brushing a part of someone from his back, he nudged Q up.

"We have to keep going."

Q was looking back towards the site of the explosion, his eyes unreadable, his mouth twitching. Pangs of conscience, thought Bond. Now?

"Q?"

"Sand dampens the effect of the force propulsion," said the younger man, looking out at the lines in the sand where the bomb had gone off. "If there are going to be further desert missions I might design something that takes that into account. Incorporating sand into the projectiles could be useful, it can add to the abrasion damage."

Bond stared at him, at the serious eyes behind crooked glasses, the skinny neck and rumpled jumper. He must have been staring openly enough that Q felt it, turned towards him, his eyes quizzical, his mouth about to open.

"You are fucking sexy, you know that?" Bond blurted out. He expected a dry rejoinder from Q, something sarcastic, but the other man just stared at him for a moment and then laughed, a real laugh, open-mouthed and sudden, like he couldn't contain himself. He stood there on the dune amid the gore and the bodies and the blasted sand in the dark with blood on his hands and he laughed, and Bond felt like he could practically fall in love.

Q stopped laughing, but he was still grinning down at Bond, his eyes running comfortably up and down over his body. "You think that's sexy, you'll love this," he said, holding up a small shiny object. "Transmitter's working. Retrieval team should be on it's way from the safehouse already - probably intersect with us in about three minutes."

"Oh," said Bond, suddenly aware of how much effort it was taking to stay upright on one leg, of how much his ankle was throbbing, of how tired he was. "That is good news."

"Can you walk?" asked Q. "Probably best if we move towards them - I'd really rather not be in the middle of a pile of gore when they get here. Awkward questions and all that."

"I can walk," said Bond, but the end of the word got swallowed in a gasp as he tried to put weight on his right foot and felt the bones within it shift against each other and leave gaps in their wake.

"Here," said Q, and came towards him, ducking his head under Bond's shoulder to throw his arm around Q's back. Q put held on to Bond's arm with one hand, and the other went around his waist, probably quite a bit lower than it really needed to be, but Bond wasn't complaining. They started walking, Bond limping and leaning on Q's shoulder, Q walking in step with him and running his fingers up and down Bond's other hip, lightly, soothing and teasing at the same time.

"Wounded in action," huffed Bond as they walked. "I believe that qualifies me for a few days of rest and recuperation while we're here. Also, a luxury hotel."

Q nodded, his eyes on the horizon. "I should think so," he said. "With a really big bed, probably, and discreet room service."

Bond felt a smirk coming to his face. "I'll need a lot of attention," he said. "Personal attention. From someone...highly trained."

Q's finger's brushed lower down Bond's side, and started running down his thigh. "You know," he said, conversationally, "I probably ought to stay in Egypt for a few more days. Make sure everything went right with that program I installed."

"How very thorough of you," said Bond.

Q turned his head and looked him straight in the eye, blue-green pools behind his glasses. "I am always thorough," he said, his voice dropping lower. And then, his head snapping up, "Oh, look, the retrieval team's here."


	6. Chapter 6

Since Q did not spend much time in the field, he was not particularly familiar with the debriefing protocols, not from this point of view anyway. Normally he just got his tech back or whatever the agents had acquired or came to talk to the agent for a few moments about what had been destroyed. To be honest, most of his debriefs were just with the equipment. He processed them, found out the cold hard facts. Because unlike people, there were no unreliable narratives with electronics. They told the truth, they revealed information.

But this time was different. When they had arrived in the safehouse, he had been separated from Bond almost immediately. A medic had whisked off the seasoned agent, to tend to his injuries. Q ached to be back next to his partner from the mission, to know that he was healing well and recovered.

“I have nothing else to say,” Q attempted not to sound irritable, talking to the man who was with him in the small room, questioning him about the details of the mission.

“Your telling of the events is not yet complete,” the man insisted, crossing his arms.

Q gave him a defiant look, “Where is Bond?”

Back in the desert, in the sand, covered in sweat and blood and filled with adrenaline from the mission, something had shifted. Q had always been a little hesitant with Bond, unsure of him and his ability to take life. But with his arm around Bond’s firm abs, his hand on Bond’s hip, carrying some of his weight as they ran, something changed.

He wanted a chance to be back near Bond, to make sure that connection they had made out in the field was not fleeting. Just because they were back now, and out of danger, did not mean Q was ready to fall back into their old habits. And the longer Q had to wait, the more time he had to think things through in his own head, the more he worried it had all been some sort of fevered dream. Had he really made plans to care for Bond in a hotel room in Egypt?

“Agent 007 is being debriefed in a separate room and his wounds being cleaned and dressed,” the man said, his temper sounding short.

This was not the answer Q wanted to hear. He had not had a chance to wash at all, so he was still sticky and uncomfortable. Every inch of him was stiff with sand, caked in dried sweat and spattered with blood which was not his own.

Q let his head fall back and sighed, losing his patience, “Look, no one on your site is capable of handling the equipment and tech we brought back. Only I am. That is why I am The Quartermaster, and the rest of the agents assigned to your station work for me. So either you agree with me that we are done now and I can get on with my job - or I report back to M that you held up the recovery of important data.”

“Fine,” the man said seethed through clenched teeth, “You are free to go”.

That was all Q needed to hear. Like a bullet, he shot out of his seat, suddenly forgetting how tired and worn he had been feeling just seconds before. He needed to find Bond.

This turned out to be much easier than he had anticipated, because coming from the room next his was a very angry sounding agent. “Agent Bond, I insist that you cooperate. Your little companion is fine and will remain so.”

Q pushed open the door, letting himself into the room. And there was Bond, sitting back in his chair, his hands out in front of him, a calm look on his face. Across from him was a red-faced agent, standing and looking like he might want to hit 007 but was barely able to restrain himself. Both men turned to look at the flung open door.

The agent gave a frustrated sigh, but not Bond. Bond just quirked up the corner of his mouth, forming a small smirk. “Took you long enough,” he said, his sky blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let’s go.”

Q trailed slightly behind Bond as they entered the safehouse garage. The cement box in the middle of Cairo was filled with priceless cars. Bond grabbed a key off the hanger and tossed it to Q and threw his crutches into the backseat of the custom red Ferrari convertible. 

"I thought we were supposed to be a secret organization. This is why I stopped with all that exploding pen nonsense, you all don't know stealth." Q sighed. Really, they could almost double his budget if they just stopped buying expensive cars for the Double 0's to wreck every other week. 

Bond smiled and maneuvered himself into the car; his strong body, even injured, doing so with amazing grace. Q suddenly felt religious. "But, we do know style." Bond quipped, "You coming?" 

Q jumped over the door, his long legs sliding into the driver's seat. He was feeling brilliant and bold, untouchable. Was that Bond's attention? Did he make everyone of his liaisons feel this way? He gave Bond a sideways look, "Not yet, but I was hoping you could change that."

Bond's eyes lit up as he slowly and brazenly traced the lines of Q's body. "Is that an order?" 

Q chuckled, a genuine bubble of happiness mixed with disbelief rising up through his throat. "When have you ever obeyed my orders?" 

Bond - as if they taught Double O's how to be cool as apart of their training, Smooth & Suave 101 - slipped on his sunglasses. "Well," said Bond, "there is a first time for everything." 

Q pressed the start button and the engine purring loudly, the vibrations suddenly drawing attention to Q's real need. "Promises, promises, Double O." 

The garage door creaked up as they exited the garage, and the sandstone buildings of Cairo glowed red and orange in the dawn's light. "Not a promise, Quartermaster, a certainty. I did tell you I was good at a great many things." 

Q smirked at Bond, the agent's steel blue eyes stared into him - waiting, challenging. "So did I, Mr. Bond. So, did I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Last chapter. We hope you guys liked it, thanks so much for reading this far!!


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